


For Tomorrow We Die

by alltheshinywords



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4451687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alltheshinywords/pseuds/alltheshinywords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has always believed in magic. Posted previously on Tumblr for the Game of Ships challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Tomorrow We Die

At last, Jeyne emerged, giggling, from behind the partition where the Fortune Teller was handing out peoples’ futures to them like fruit plucked from a tree.

            “Well?” Sansa pressed, straining to catch a glimpse before the curtain fell shut again. “What did she say?”

            Her oldest friend’s face was dreamy, stars dancing in her eyes. “She told me a handsome knight from the south would fall in love at first sight and pledge to fight dragons for me.”

            Sansa could not help but feel a twinge of jealousy, it was so hopelessly romantic. _If Jeyne gets a knight, then surely I’ll get a prince_ , she reassured herself, for all that her friend was low born and she was daughter of a lord. She’d heard that Prince Joffrey was very handsome, handsomer than any silly southern knight. And besides, there were no such thing as dragons anymore.

            “Oh, I can hardly stand to wait,” she whined, eying the two village girls in front of her. “I hope she doesn’t leave before it’s my turn!”

            Normally they never had entertainments of this sort in Winterfell. But it was her mother’s name day and as part of the celebration, Father had surprised her with some of her favorite traditions from the south—for all he looked as though he was regretting it, gray and solemn and shifting uncomfortably every time one of the fire dancers twirled too near.

            But of all the things filling up Winterfell’s courtyard that day, Sansa was most excited for the fortune teller. Her future was what she longed for most—more than the airy music or spiced cider or even the lemon cakes. Robb had laughed at her and said the woman was just paid to tell everyone what they wanted to hear, but she didn’t believe it. There was such a thing as magic, whether her boorish brother believed it or not.

            At last it was Sansa’s turn. Suddenly shy now that her moment was upon her, she crept behind the partition and sat primly in the stool across from the woman. She had hoped the teller would be exotic and beautiful, like one of the sand warriors from Dorne, but instead she was gnarled and hobbled with great flabs of wrinkled skin hanging from her chin.

            Worse still, she looked bored as she motioned for Sansa’s hand. “Here, girl. No point in keeping the spirits waiting…”

            This wasn’t how it was supposed to be at all. There should have been candles, and lush fabrics, and a starry-eyed beauty, just like in the stories. Instead the crone fumbled for Sansa. “Let me guess…a handsome knight and a load of babies. That is what your heart desires, hmm?”

            Sansa blushed. “Well…”

             The woman’s fingers made contact with Sansa’s palm, and at once her entire demeanor changed. She sat up, her entire body stiffening, as her yellowing eyes searched the younger girl’s face.

            “I was hoping… might there be a prince in my future?”

            The teller released Sansa’s hand, recoiling as if she’d been burnt. “Oh, ay,” she said at last. “There’s a prince in your stars, to be sure.”

            Blushing, Sansa couldn’t help but press on, “And might he fight dragons for me?”

            “Trust me, little bird. It isn’t the dragons you should worry about.”

            It was a disappointed Sansa who left the partition to find Jeyne eagerly waiting for her. “Well? What did she have to say?”

            _Nothing_ , Sansa wanted to grouse back, _except for what I dragged out of her_. And even that had seemed to be too much for the teller, who had abruptly stood and claimed she had to leave, though Sansa knew her father had paid her for the entire day.

            “She said I would marry a prince,” Sansa said instead, forcing a bright smile. “Aren’t I lucky?”

            At the time, she thought perhaps Robb was right, that it was all a hoax. It wasn’t until later that the woman’s words came back to haunt her, and the truth of it burned inside her chest.

 

#

 

            “How kind of you,” Sansa murmured to Lady Olenna as Margery helped to fasten up her long red locks into the hairnet the Queen of Thorns had presented to her as a gift for the wedding. “It’s so lovely.”

            “It’s lucky,” Lady Olenna corrected her, “which is better than loveliness, as anyone with half a brain could tell you.”

Sansa hesitated, not wanting to seem ungrateful. “But… oughtn’t it to be given to Margery? She’s the one to be wed today, after all.”

In the mirror’s reflection, she saw Margery and her grandmother exchange a quick glance. “I don’t need any luck,” Margery said at last. “I’m marrying a handsome prince. And I want you to be just as fortunate as me.” She smiled warmly at Sansa and squeezed her shoulders. “Grandmother always said her every hope and desire came true when she wore this. As if it’s some kind of mystical charm. Didn’t you, grandmother?”

Lady Olenna sniffed. “I’m certain I never said anything half so sentimental.”

Margery went on as if she hadn’t heard her. “If you could desire one thing in the entire world, Sansa, what would it be?”

Later that night, as she sailed away across the dark, choppy waters with Joffrey’s bulging, reddened face still fresh in her mind, Sansa reached up to touch the hairnet, and believed in magic for the second time in her life.

 

#

 

“Eat this,” Mya urged Alayne, pressing the root into her trembling hands. “It will take all your troubles away.”

Try as she might, Alayne could not stop Sansa from peering out from time to time, popping up in the oddest places at the most inconvenient times. “Like a magic potion?” she whispered.

Mya was too accustomed to Alayne’s odd moods to be too much disturbed by this sort of whimsical talk. “Like a magic potion,” she agreed. “Just one bite, and all your wishes will come true.”

The next morning, as Alayne woke to find her sheets soaked in moon blood, she pressed her eyes shut to keep the tears from seeping out. Petyr would be so angry; he had so been depending upon a child to make all his plans come to pass. But it was a relief, all the same, and she said a silent prayer of thanks to the old gods and the new.

 

#

 

            Jon Snow was not a handsome southern knight. He _was_ technically a prince, and she knew he would fight dragons for her if she asked it. But this was not what Sansa thought of when she looked at him.

            It was the way he listened, unflinching, when she was finally strong enough to tell him the horrors she’d underwent during their time apart. And though his face was compassionate, he did not try to tell her that none of it mattered, or that she should forget it. He only listened. She realized later that it must have killed him to do so, but he listened to every word.

            It was his soft but firm grip on her skull as he helped her wash the last of the dye from her hair—because she could not bear to be Alayne Stone for one moment longer, and because there was no one else she trusted to help her in this task after Mya disappeared (so shortly after the incident with the root that she knew it was not coincidence).

            It was the rare smile that cracked his lips on the even rarer occasion that she laughed—not, like Harry, in a boastful way, arrogant of his own wit and cleverness. Rather, she believed, because he simply liked to see her smile, and liked even more to be the one to make her do so.

He was brave, and gentle, and kind. All the things that Sansa once scoffed at but now seemed to have been uttered by her father’s lips as an incantation, the world’s most perfect spell, to form this impossible man.

At last, she understood what Ned Stark was trying to wish for her all those years ago.

 

#

 

She thought sometimes—knew sometimes—that she was not alone in the way she felt. Once, late at night, when they’d talked so long that the last embers of the fire in the Great Hall were fading out and they had naturally moved in toward each other for some warmth, Sansa thought he’d meant to kiss her.

“Jon,” she’d whispered, fingers clutching at his tunic.

And just as quickly as that, he was gone without a word of explanation, though the next day he’d put on an excellent performance that nothing had changed.

Sansa, too, believed she was fairly good at pretending, until one day Val cornered her in the stables. “He’s a shy one, Jon Snow. You’ll never get him by batting your eyelashes and hoping he takes notice.”

Blushing furiously, Sansa had to wonder—and not for the first time—how much of this Val knew from experience. But if there had been anything between her and Jon in the past, it was clear from their interactions now that it was just that—in the past. And regardless of why or how, there was a tone of authority in the wildling princess’s tone.

“What should I do?” Sansa asked.

“If it were me? I’d crawl into bed, and be done with it.” Val eyed Sansa over, noticing the deepening pink of her cheeks at the suggestion. “But I suppose that wouldn’t do for a Lady of Winterfell.”

“No,” Sansa agreed. The prospect thrilled her, frankly, but she doubted she could ever be that bold, even now.

“Then you’ll have to let the Harvest wine do the trick.”

It was a special drink, Val explained, prepared by the wildlings as a special treat to celebrate the harvest moon. It was said to be a potent thing, breaking down men’s inhibitions and stoking their carnal desires. At least, that was the gist of it, Sansa believed, though Val used some determinedly more graphic language to get her point across.

“Like a love spell?” she summarized finally, mulling over the idea of it in her mind.

Val scoffed. “If calling it ‘love’ makes it sound sweeter to you, certainly.”

Sansa shifted, uncomfortable as a new thought sprang to mind. “But wouldn’t it be manipulating Jon? Forcing him against his will?”

“Harvest wine doesn’t create desire,” the wildling woman returned sagely, “only releases it.”

 

#

 

            The night of the celebrations finally arrived. Jon seemed surprise at Sansa’s eagerness to attend the wildling festival, but indulged her as she dragged him by the hand. Already the festivities were in full swing. A bonfire blazed, people laughed and danced and ate and drank. From the darkness came sounds that made Sansa blush to hear them, though she feigned ignorance as she pulled Jon in toward the light.

            “I’ll fetch you some wine,” Sansa said, perhaps a bit too eagerly; despite all of Petyr’s lessons, she had never quite mastered the art of subterfuge.

            Jon pulled her back before she could make it two steps, his face concerned as his eyes darted about the crowd. “Better to stay with me, I think. The wildlings are having a bit too much fun tonight. I’d hate for anyone to forget you were the Lady of this place.”

            His thumb was pressed against her wrist, where her pulse leapt against her skin as if to be nearer to him. Sansa thought he must feel it, though he said nothing. Yet, he did not pull away either. For a moment, she thought about just staying there by his side, basking in the warmth of the fire.

            Then her gaze caught Val’s across the way. The wildling woman motioned with her head.

            “It will only be a moment,” Sansa promised, managing to disentangle herself without further protest. “If anyone grabs at me, I’ll scream loud enough to wake the whole forest, I swear it…”

            Val was waiting for her with two cups of the amber liquid. At Sansa’s unspoken question, she smirked. “One for you, one for him. Lord Snow isn’t the only one who needs his inhibitions lowered, _my lady_.”

            Swallowing, Sansa took both goblets and turned to find Jon again in the crowd.

            “Here,” she said, all but thrusting the drink into his hands. “It’s supposed to be very good.”

            Jon eyed his cup uneasily. “Sansa, I wouldn’t…”

            Before she could think too much about it, Sansa had drained the entire goblet of its contents. If she was going to force Jon out of his shell, it was only fair she do the same. It burned down her throat—a heavy, sweet heat that warmed her to her toes—and before she’d even fully swallowed she felt herself swaying forward, light on her feet.

            Jon caught her by the arm. “Are you all right?”

            Oh, but it was torture. The harvest wine pumped through her veins, prickled in her skin. Every touch was magnified, every emotion heightened. She could feel him in her very bones.

            Stumbling, she pulled away, not wanting to be so overwhelmed that he’d forget to drink his own wine and never have a chance to experience the same. “I want to dance!” she cried, and charged amidst the circle of wildling girls, laughing and twirling around the bonfire as the heavy thrum of drums kept their time.

            A moment later, she looked up to see Jon watching her. His gaze was so piercing, taking her in, coating her with gray. Yet he made no move to join her. His cup was on the ground beside him, empty, but he did not come for her. Which meant…

            He did not want her after all.

            The sorrow would have been heavy enough on its own, but amplified by the drink it felt like madness. Stifling back a sob, Sansa pushed her way through the crowd, racing out into the dark forest beyond.

            She was only vaguely aware of the sound of Jon’s voice, calling after her, but she pressed on nonetheless. Perhaps someday it would be enough for him to love her like the sister she’d never been to him as children. Perhaps someday she could appreciate his platonic kindness and his universal gentleness. But not now. Now, it was absolute torture.

            A twig snapped behind her, signaling his approach. Sansa braced herself, holding out a hand without looking back. “Please, Jon. I need to be alone—”

            No sooner had the words escaped her mouth than he was upon her, hands exploring her body with wanton abandonment. Warm lips found the skin at the back of her neck.

            Sansa gasped, and moaned, and finally had to twist around in his arms to be certain it was him. “Jon?” she asked in dazed, giddy wonder.

            His gray eyes met her blue, heady and hungry. “Sansa,” he rasped back before crashing his mouth into hers, overwhelmed by some great force beyond his control.

 

#

 

            He spent the better part of the morning pulling twigs and leaves from her hair, and she returned the favor as best she could from his unruly curls. The effect of the wine had finally begun to ebb around dawn, though Sansa could still feel tendrils of it curling near the base of her spine, the pit of her belly.

            It was too blissfully content a moment to shatter, and yet… Sansa could not help the guilt, despite what Val had said.

            Jon must have noticed, for at once his hands stilled. His eyes, when she at last met them, were full of worry. “Are you regretting it?”

            “No.” Sansa left no room for doubt in that word. And just to be sure, she took his hand and pressed his palm to her lips. “Only, I have something to confess to you, and I’m afraid you’ll be angry with me.”

            He raised an eyebrow at her. “Go on.”

            Squirming, she admitted to the entire thing—to the long months of wanting him, to Val’s suggestion, to the Harvest wine she’d placed in his hands. “I didn’t mean to manipulate you, only… only I wanted so desperately to see if you felt the same way.”

            To her surprise, Jon only kissed her. “I know.”

            “You know?”

            “Val approached me before she approached you and told me the same tale.” He gave her his most innocent smile. “I refused, of course. I could never be so presumptuous as to assume that you felt the same way—until you played the very trick on me Val tried to get me to play on you.”

            She wanted to die, it was too mortifying. “You knew the whole time?”

            Jon went on. “I thought to myself, if this woman is really so desperate to have me, who am I to deny her…?”

            A slug to his chest ended that particular dialogue, though she could still feel the light rumble of his chest with laughter. “I wouldn’t have had to resort to it if you hadn’t been such a coward about your feelings,” Sansa defended herself. “The great Jon Snow, slayer of white walkers, blood of the dragon and wolf…afraid of a girl.”

            “Terrified,” Jon agreed, wrapping a strand of her hair around his fingers. “What is this thrall you have over me?”

            Sansa knew well enough, but simply buried her face against his chest. It was the thing that blocked out the cold, that healed even the deepest of wounds, that made the long winter bearable. It was the great impossible thing, that could spur a man run toward fire instead of away from it, and persuade a woman to bear her heart for the world to see even after it had been torn to shreds and left for dead.

            It was love, the most mystical and unexplainable of life’s great mysteries. And oh, wasn’t it magical?


End file.
